The House of Hades hoo-4, Page 2

  “We have to meet him,” she said. “He’s here to help.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Leo scratched his head. “But, uh, we talked about not landing the ship on the ground anymore, remember? You know, with Gaea wanting to destroy us and all.”

  “Just get me close, and I’ll use the rope ladder.” Hazel’s heart was pounding. “I think Arion wants to tell me something.”

  HAZEL HAD NEVER FELT SO HAPPY. Well, except for maybe on the night of the victory feast at Camp Jupiter, when she’d kissed Frank for the first time…but this was a close second.

  As soon as she reached the ground, she ran to Arion and threw her arms around him. “I missed you!” She pressed her face into the horse’s warm neck, which smelled of sea salt and apples. “Where have you been?”

  Arion nickered. Hazel wished she could speak Horse like Percy could, but she got the general idea. Arion sounded impatient, as if saying, No time for sentiment, girl! Come on!

  “You want me to go with you?” she guessed.

  Arion bobbed his head, trotting in place. His dark brown eyes gleamed with urgency.

  Hazel still couldn’t believe he was actually here. He could run across any surface, even the sea; but she’d been afraid he wouldn’t follow them into the ancient lands. The Mediterranean was too dangerous for demigods and their allies.

  He wouldn’t have come unless Hazel was in dire need. And he seemed so agitated.… Anything that could make a fearless horse skittish should have terrified Hazel.

  Instead, she felt elated. She was so tired of being seasick and airsick. Aboard the Argo II, she felt about as useful as a box of ballast. She was glad to be back on solid ground, even if it was Gaea’s territory. She was ready to ride.

  “Hazel!” Nico called down from the ship. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s fine!” She crouched down and summoned a gold nugget from the earth. She was getting better at controlling her power. Precious stones hardly ever popped up around her by accident anymore, and pulling gold from the ground was easy.

  She fed Arion the nugget…his favorite snack. Then she smiled up at Leo and Nico, who were watching her from the top of the ladder a hundred feet above. “Arion wants to take me somewhere.”

  The boys exchanged nervous looks.

  “Uh…” Leo pointed north. “Please tell me he’s not taking you into that?”

  Hazel had been so focused on Arion, she hadn’t noticed the disturbance. A mile away, on the crest of the next hill, a storm had gathered over some old stone ruins—maybe the remains of a Roman temple or a fortress. A funnel cloud snaked its way down toward the hill like an inky black finger.

  Hazel’s mouth tasted like blood. She looked at Arion. “You want to go there?”

  Arion whinnied, as if to say, Uh, duh!

  Well…Hazel had asked for help. Was this her dad’s answer?

  She hoped so, but she sensed something besides Pluto at work in that storm…something dark, powerful, and not necessarily friendly.

  Still, this was her chance to help her friends—to lead instead of follow.

  She tightened the straps of her Imperial gold cavalry sword and climbed onto Arion’s back.

  “I’ll be okay!” she called up to Nico and Leo. “Stay put and wait for me.”

  “Wait for how long?” Nico asked. “What if you don’t come back?”

  “Don’t worry, I will,” she promised, hoping it was true.

  She spurred Arion, and they shot across the countryside, heading straight for the growing tornado.

  THE STORM SWALLOWED THE HILL in a swirling cone of black vapor.

  Arion charged straight into it.

  Hazel found herself at the summit, but it felt like a different dimension. The world lost its color. The walls of the storm encircled the hill in murky black. The sky churned gray. The crumbling ruins were bleached so white, they almost glowed. Even Arion had turned from caramel brown to a dark shade of ash.

  In the eye of the tempest, the air was still. Hazel’s skin tingled coolly, as if she’d been rubbed with alcohol. In front of her, an arched gateway led through mossy walls into some sort of enclosure.

  Hazel couldn’t see much through the gloom, but she felt a presence within, as if she were a chunk of iron close to a large magnet. Its pull was irresistible, dragging her forward.

  Yet she hesitated. She reined in Arion, and he clopped impatiently, the ground crackling under his hooves. Wherever he stepped, the grass, dirt, and stones turned white like frost. Hazel remembered the Hubbard Glacier in Alaska—how the surface had cracked under their feet. She remembered the floor of that horrible cavern in Rome crumbling to dust, plunging Percy and Annabeth into Tartarus.

  She hoped this black-and-white hilltop wouldn’t dissolve under her, but she decided it was best to keep moving.

  “Let’s go, then, boy.” Her voice sounded muffled, as if she were speaking into a pillow.

  Arion trotted through the stone archway. Ruined walls bordered a square courtyard about the size of a tennis court. Three other gateways, one in the middle of each wall, led north, east, and west. In the center of the yard, two cobblestone paths intersected, making a cross. Mist hung in the air—hazy shreds of white that coiled and undulated as if they were alive.

  Not mist, Hazel realized. The Mist.

  All her life, she’d heard about the Mist—the supernatural veil that obscured the world of myth from the sight of mortals. It could deceive humans, even demigods, into seeing monsters as harmless animals, or gods as regular people.

  Hazel had never thought of it as actual smoke, but as she watched it curling around Arion’s legs, floating through the broken arches of the ruined courtyard, the hairs stood up on her arms. Somehow she knew: this white stuff was pure magic.

  In the distance, a dog howled. Arion wasn’t usually scared of anything, but he reared, huffing nervously.

  “It’s okay.” Hazel stroked his neck. “We’re in this together. I’m going to get down, all right?”

  She slid off Arion’s back. Instantly he turned and ran.

  “Arion, wai—”

  But he’d already disappeared the way he’d come.

  So much for being in this together.

  Another howl cut through the air—closer this time.

  Hazel stepped toward the center of the courtyard. The Mist clung to her like freezer fog.

  “Hello?” she called.

  “Hello,” a voice answered.

  The pale figure of a woman appeared at the northern gateway. No, wait…she stood at the eastern entrance. No, the western. Three smoky images of the same woman moved in unison toward the center of the ruins. Her form was blurred, made from Mist, and she was trailed by two smaller wisps of smoke, darting at her heels like animals. Some sort of pets?

  She reached the center of the courtyard and her three forms merged into one. She solidified into a young woman in a dark sleeveless gown. Her golden hair was gathered into a high-set ponytail, Ancient Greek style. Her dress was so silky, it seemed to ripple, as if the cloth were ink spilling off her shoulders. She looked no more than twenty, but Hazel knew that meant nothing.

  “Hazel Levesque,” said the woman.

  She was beautiful, but deathly pale. Once, back in New Orleans, Hazel had been forced to attend a wake for a dead classmate. She remembered the lifeless body of the young girl in the open casket. Her face had been made up prettily, as if she were resting, which Hazel had found terrifying.

  This woman reminded Hazel of that girl—except the woman’s eyes were open and completely black. When she tilted her head, she seemed to break into three different people again…misty afterimages blurring together, like a photograph of someone moving too fast to capture.

  “Who are you?” Hazel’s fingers twitched at the hilt of her sword. “I mean…which goddess?”

  Hazel was sure of that much. This woman radiated power. Everything around them—the swirling Mist, the monochromatic storm, the eerie glow of the ruins—was because of her prese
nce.

  “Ah.” The woman nodded. “Let me give you some light.”

  She raised her hands. Suddenly she was holding two old-fashioned reed torches, guttering with fire. The Mist receded to the edges of the courtyard. At the woman’s sandaled feet, the two wispy animals took on solid form. One was a black Labrador retriever. The other was a long, gray, furry rodent with a white mask around its face. A weasel, maybe?

  The woman smiled serenely.

  “I am Hecate,” she said. “Goddess of magic. We have much to discuss if you’re to live through tonight.”

  HAZEL WANTED TO RUN, but her feet seemed stuck to the white-glazed ground.

  On either side of the crossroads, two dark metal torch-stands erupted from the dirt like plant stalks. Hecate fixed her torches in them, then walked a slow circle around Hazel, regarding her as if they were partners in some eerie dance.

  The black dog and the weasel followed in her wake.

  “You are like your mother,” Hecate decided.

  Hazel’s throat constricted. “You knew her?”

  “Of course. Marie was a fortune-teller. She dealt in charms and curses and gris-gris. I am the goddess of magic.”

  Those pure black eyes seemed to pull at Hazel, as if trying to extract her soul. During her first lifetime in New Orleans, Hazel had been tormented by the kids at St. Agnes School because of her mother. They called Marie Levesque a witch. The nuns muttered that Hazel’s mother was trading with the Devil.

  If the nuns were scared of my mom, Hazel wondered, what would they make of this goddess?

  “Many fear me,” Hecate said, as if reading her thoughts. “But magic is neither good nor evil. It is a tool, like a knife. Is a knife evil? Only if the wielder is evil.”

  “My—my mother…” Hazel stammered. “She didn’t believe in magic. Not really. She was just faking it, for the money.”

  The weasel chittered and bared its teeth. Then it made a squeaking sound from its back end. Under other circumstances, a weasel passing gas might have been funny, but Hazel didn’t laugh. The rodent’s red eyes glared at her balefully, like tiny coals.

  “Peace, Gale,” said Hecate. She gave Hazel an apologetic shrug. “Gale does not like hearing about nonbelievers and con artists. She herself was once a witch, you see.”

  “Your weasel was a witch?”

  “She’s a polecat, actually,” Hecate said. “But, yes—Gale was once a disagreeable human witch. She had terrible personal hygiene, plus extreme—ah, digestive issues.” Hecate waved her hand in front of her nose. “It gave my other followers a bad name.”

  “Okay.” Hazel tried not to look at the weasel. She really didn’t want to know about the rodent’s intestinal problems.

  “At any rate,” Hecate said, “I turned her into a polecat. She’s much better as a polecat.”

  Hazel swallowed. She looked at the black dog, which was affectionately nuzzling the goddess’s hand. “And your Labrador…?”

  “Oh, she’s Hecuba, the former queen of Troy,” Hecate said, as if that should be obvious.

  The dog grunted.

  “You’re right, Hecuba,” the goddess said. “We don’t have time for long introductions. The point is, Hazel Levesque, your mother may have claimed not to believe, but she had true magic. Eventually, she realized this. When she searched for a spell to summon the god Pluto, I helped her find it.”

  “You…?”

  “Yes.” Hecate continued circling Hazel. “I saw potential in your mother. I see even more potential in you.”

  Hazel’s head spun. She remembered her mother’s confession just before she had died: how she’d summoned Pluto, how the god had fallen in love with her, and how, because of her greedy wish, her daughter Hazel had been born with a curse. Hazel could summon riches from the earth, but anyone who used them would suffer and die.

  Now this goddess was saying that she had made all that happen.

  “My mother suffered because of that magic. My whole life—”

  “Your life wouldn’t have happened without me,” Hecate said flatly. “I have no time for your anger. Neither do you. Without my help, you will die.”

  The black dog snarled. The polecat snapped its teeth and passed gas.

  Hazel felt like her lungs were filling with hot sand.

  “What kind of help?” she demanded.

  Hecate raised her pale arms. The three gateways she’d come from—north, east, and west—began to swirl with Mist. A flurry of black-and-white images glowed and flickered, like the old silent movies that were still playing in theaters sometimes when Hazel was small.

  In the western doorway, Roman and Greek demigods in full armor fought one another on a hillside under a large pine tree. The grass was strewn with the wounded and the dying. Hazel saw herself riding Arion, charging through the melee and shouting—trying to stop the violence.

  In the gateway to the east, Hazel saw the Argo II plunging through the sky above the Apennines. Its rigging was in flames. A boulder smashed into the quarterdeck. Another punched through the hull. The ship burst like a rotten pumpkin, and the engine exploded.

  The images in the northern doorway were even worse. Hazel saw Leo, unconscious—or dead—falling through the clouds. She saw Frank staggering alone down a dark tunnel, clutching his arm, his shirt soaked in blood. And Hazel saw herself in a vast cavern filled with strands of light like a luminous web. She was struggling to break through while, in the distance, Percy and Annabeth lay sprawled and unmoving at the foot of two black-and-silver metal doors.

  “Choices,” said Hecate. “You stand at the crossroads, Hazel Levesque. And I am the goddess of crossroads.”

  The ground rumbled at Hazel’s feet. She looked down and saw the glint of silver coins…thousands of old Roman denarii breaking the surface all around her, as if the entire hilltop was coming to a boil. She’d been so agitated by the visions in the doorways that she must have summoned every bit of silver in the surrounding countryside.

  “The past is close to the surface in this place,” Hecate said. “In ancient times, two great Roman roads met here. News was exchanged. Markets were held. Friends met, and enemies fought. Entire armies had to choose a direction. Crossroads are always places of decision.”

  “Like…like Janus.” Hazel remembered the shrine of Janus on Temple Hill back at Camp Jupiter. Demigods would go there to make decisions. They would flip a coin, heads or tails, and hope the two-faced god would guide them well. Hazel had always hated that place. She’d never understood why her friends were so willing to let a god take away their responsibility for choosing. After all Hazel had been through, she trusted the wisdom of the gods about as much as she trusted a New Orleans slot machine.

  The goddess of magic made a disgusted hiss. “Janus and his doorways. He would have you believe that all choices are black or white, yes or no, in or out. In fact, it’s not that simple. Whenever you reach the crossroads, there are always at least three ways to go…four, if you count going backward. You are at such a crossing now, Hazel.”

  Hazel looked again at each swirling gateway: a demigod war, the destruction of the Argo II, disaster for herself and her friends. “All the choices are bad.”

  “All choices have risks,” the goddess corrected. “But what is your goal?”

  “My goal?” Hazel waved helplessly at the doorways. “None of these.”

  The dog Hecuba snarled. Gale the polecat skittered around the goddess’s feet, farting and gnashing her teeth.

  “You could go backward,” Hecate suggested, “retrace your steps to Rome…but Gaea’s forces are expecting that. None of you will survive.”

  “So…what are you saying?”

  Hecate stepped to the nearest torch. She scooped a handful of fire and sculpted the flames until she was holding a miniature relief map of Italy.

  “You could go west.” Hecate let her finger drift away from her fiery map. “Go back to America with your prize, the Athena Parthenos. Your comrades back home, Greek and Roman, are on
the brink of war. Leave now, and you might save many lives.”

  “Might,” Hazel repeated. “But Gaea is supposed to wake in Greece. That’s where the giants are gathering.”

  “True. Gaea has set the date of August first, the Feast of Spes, goddess of hope, for her rise to power. By waking on the Day of Hope, she intends to destroy all hope forever. Even if you reached Greece by then, could you stop her? I do not know.” Hecate traced her finger along the tops of the fiery Apennines. “You could go east, across the mountains, but Gaea will do anything to stop you from crossing Italy. She has raised her mountain gods against you.”

  “We noticed,” Hazel said.

  “Any attempt to cross the Apennines will mean the destruction of your ship. Ironically, this might be the safest option for your crew. I foresee that all of you would survive the explosion. It is possible, though unlikely, you could still reach Epirus and close the Doors of Death. You might find Gaea and prevent her rise. But by then, both demigod camps would be destroyed. You would have no home to return to.” Hecate smiled. “More likely, the destruction of your ship would strand you in the mountains. It would mean the end of your quest, but it would spare you and your friends much pain and suffering in the days to come. The war with the giants would have to be won or lost without you.”

  Won or lost without us.

  A small, guilty part of Hazel found that appealing. She’d been wishing for the chance to be a normal girl. She didn’t want any more pain or suffering for herself and her friends. They’d already been through so much.

  She looked behind Hecate at the middle gateway. She saw Percy and Annabeth sprawled helplessly before those black-and-silver doors. A massive dark shape, vaguely humanoid, now loomed over them, its foot raised as if to crush Percy.

  “What about them?” Hazel asked, her voice ragged. “Percy and Annabeth?”

  Hecate shrugged. “West, east, or south…they die.”

  “Not an option,” Hazel said.

  “Then you have only one path, though it is the most dangerous.”